Stories
The Last Detail
It started with the grass clippings. I’d just finished mowing the front yard. True, the rows lacked the zigzag symmetry of the adjacent lawns, and the edges were a bit on the shaggy side—I hadn’t yet invested in one of those trimmer gizmos—but I was nonetheless pleased with my accomplishment.
Nepo Baby
Nepo Baby can’t find her sunglasses. She’s driving to an audition, swerving down the 101 in her brand new Bentley, which her father bought her last week. It’s golden hour, selfie hour. This is her favorite hour. It turns her moss-green eyes into an evergreen world. It means more likes, which means more engagement, which means more sponsors.
The Pantry
Emily carefully set the last jar on the shelf, watching the collagen-thick bone broth quiver in the pantry’s dim light. She ran her fingers along each neatly labeled jar; bone broth in beef and chicken, green beans and red tomatoes like Christmas decorations. Some of the women in the Canning Club used jars they traded or bought at the ReUse Center, but that meant they weren’t uniform. The uniformity was key. It allowed her to plan, form straight lines on all her shelves, know what she had without worrying whether she was missing a jar that might be stashed behind the others.
The Train to Union Station
Esther had rarely traveled more than ten miles from her home in Waterloo, Indiana, so when the Amtrak to Chicago groaned and lurched forward, her insides lurched with it. She let her purse thump to the floor and stared at the head of the young man in front of her, as a seasick woman might focus on the horizon.